Tempus Incedit
by april243
Summary: "Not every story ends happily. But in a way, that's better. It lets you know that 'Tempus incedit' — Time marches on. And there's nothing we can do about it." (Fabina angst, because who doesn't love that?)


**Hello! Long time, no post. This one-shot is for what I believe to be HOA One-shot day. Probably not, but hey! What's another angsty Fabina story.**

**I hope you all like it. :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own House of Anubis, but you knew that.**

* * *

4:00am across the pond, and she can't sleep.  
9:00am on the other shore, and he's unwilling to rise from bed.

They were thinking the same thing— _Why?_  
They feeling the same way— _Lonely._

It's funny because these two lonely, questioning souls were once connected. Inseparable… One, even.  
It's even funnier how the pair disconnected. Separated… Split in two, practically.

But that story is a sad one indeed.

So, dear reader, see and feel for yourselves the true grief of love lost to time, distance, and… well… Love...

* * *

At first, she thought she was strong enough to isolate herself from that place. Those people. _Him_.

But, though she fought that battle with the strength of a thousand men, when you've made a bond as tightly as she had made her's with that place; those people; him, that invisible rope continues to tug at you until even the strongest must follow its pull.

So one day, she called.

She didn't call anyone's cellphone. No. That wouldn't do at all.

She called house itself.

_Ring, ring, ring, rin— "_Hello? To whom am I spe—?"

Before the woman, the woman she remembered so fondly, could finish, she ended the call with tears in her eyes and breath coming short.

Too many memories. She didn't find it to be worth the pain.

* * *

He looked at the photograph on his dresser longingly.

There she was. Smiling. Frozen in time.

He wondered if she still smiled like that.

He wanted to believe she did.

The only friend that was left to comfort him and understand the ache of a lost love, was beginning to succumb to her own pain of a broken heart.

A heartbreak she had given upon herself. He didn't understand that. Why would anyone do that to themselves?

Finally, the only person that understood what he was feeling was the one who he had seen sobbing her cracked heart out in the kitchen when it was her turn to cut vegetables.

She had destroyed herself.

He turned away, feeling wretched, hand to his pocket.

He felt the precious item in it, a locket, the only thing he had left of his love. His only love.  
He knew she was staying away to save them. To save him.

But it wasn't fair.

So, one day, he called… again.

He didn't think she'd answer.

He was right. She didn't.

He received the voicemail.

"Hi! You've reached the inbox of my cell! Leave a message, and I'll get back to ya' as soon as I can!"

He smiled a small, watery smile at her cheery voice.

It reminded him of a song that had been on his playlist for a long time, but had stopped listening to for some reason. And he had only just listened to it again to find he still loved the song.

He also chuckled at the thought of her calling him back. But a chuckle was not what came out.

No. Quite the opposite.

_Beep_, went the tone. He began his message.

"…Nina…" he whispered into his smartphone's microphone. "Please… I don't _want_ to move on. Please. We need you— _I_ need you. More than ever! Just… _please_… Call me back, okay?"

And then he hung up, tossed his phone on his tidy bed on, on his tidy side of his shared room, and sang a sad love song to nobody in particular. To her, perhaps.

During this, he let his mind wander.

Maybe he could do this. Maybe he _could_ let go and continue to live.

His headmaster had once told his friend once a few years back, the friend that now never met the eye of her lover, who had then repeated the message to him not a few days before.

" _'Tempus incedit'_ 'Time marches on' ," she had quoted, sitting across from him at the table, auburn hair resting delicately on her shoulders.

It did indeed. And if time marched him back to his Chosen One, then march on. And if it continued to march away from her, let it be done.

Either way, he'd be okay.

* * *

She got his message. But she couldn't bring herself to callback.

Maybe one day she'd find the courage.

But it was not that day.

And she wondered if it would ever come...

* * *

The years had since passed since the day she said goodbye and the day he knew she had to go.

Things had changed a lot in society, and in the world, but to everybody else, she seemed untouched.

Timeless.

She still waited for the day she would respond to that message— the last message he had ever sent her.

She hoped that the phrase _"It's never too late,"_ still applied for almost 70 years later.

The worrisome part of her situation was that she couldn't even be sure if he still lived in England. Or if he was even still living.

She didn't call. She couldn't. She did not know who she could possibly call.

So instead, she bought a ticket for a flight.

And when she arrived in the United Kingdom, she began her search.

And for a year, she got nowhere.

She was getting old now— almost 90.

She was getting tired too.

But not sleepy tired.

The other kind.

The kind of tired when your body begins to realize that it can't function the way a child's, or even a young adult's does.

The tired when it signals the beginning of the end.

One day, as she was beginning to lose all hope of finding him or anyone she was looking for, she caught sight of a woman, dressed all in black, sitting on a bus stop bench.

The woman, who looked around her age, 90 give or take, was sobbing into her hands.

She went over to the old woman, and sat beside her.

Being the kind, and not to mention naturally curious, person she was, she asked in a gentle tone,

"What ever is the matter?"

The woman raised her head to look at her.

With a shaky hand, the old woman wiped her eyes and, in a trembling voice, replied,

"M–My best friend, _and_ th–the last of m–my schoolmates has j–just passed away recently. Th–The funeral was t–today, and I—" the woman could not finish for another round of tears gripped her and sent her off down stream.

She comforted her by placing her own hand on the woman's arm.

"Th–Thank you," the woman hiccuped. She calmed herself before continuing. "I hate to cry. I do my best to avoid it, but sometimes it just comes dripping out in really awful situations. Do you know what I mean?"

She did know.

"I understand. I'm very sorry for your loss."

The old woman waved her hand at her.

"Don't trouble yourself with my way of grieving. I knew it would happen soon. She was failing for a long time… But she was my best friend… It's sad that I had to outlive my housemates— pardon, ex-housemates. I had hoped that I would get to be with them to the very end."

The woman paused and took a shaky breath and fiddled with the thick, grey bun perched on her head.

"But I'll be okay. I'll see them all again soon enough. At least, that's what the deacon says."

She nodded. "I understand. My own ex–housemates probably don't even know I'm still alive."

She suddenly realized she hadn't introduced herself.

"Oh! Silly me! I'm Nina. Nina Martin. You probably gathered from my old, Americ—"

"Nina? Nina Martin…?"

"Yes…"

"The Chosen One, Nina Martin?!"

Her old, rickety jaw dropped.

"How do you—?"

"It's me. Me. Patricia Miller-Sw— Well, I suppose you'll know me as Williamson, but it's me! After all these years…" the woman trailed off, a new light coming back into her blotchy, bloodshot eyes.

She felt her heart leap a bit and a smile adorn her soft, wrinkled face

.  
"It's been far too long! What have you been doing with your life since…" she trailed off, looking around for a moment to make sure no one was listening, before covering her right eye and whispering in a soft, almost longing tone, "Sibuna?"

And so the conversation began.

To everyone passing by, it looked like two old women having a chat about something simple. Perhaps the weather?

But no. These two old women were traveling through time.

Memories swallowed them whole and refused to spit them out.

It was as if they were back in their high school years, reliving the adventure, the fun, the danger, the happiness, the sadness, the fear— all of it!

It was only when her old friend's face clouded again, that she knew it was time to come back to reality.

"Nina… there's something I need to tell you. You won't like it. At all."

"It's about Fabian, isn't it?" she asked, knowing all too well it did.

Patricia nodded. "His funeral was last August… I'm so sorry. He died peacefully in his sleep."

She took a deep breath. "He lived a long life. And when he was in mine, it was blissful. No one could ask for more."

She paused for a moment, hesitant.

"Who's funeral was today?"

Patricia looked down at her feet, which were clad in pointy, black shoes.

"Joy's."

She noted that her old friend and schoolmate was much more mature than she had been when she last saw her. Of course, physically it was inevitable… but emotionally too.

It was strange to feel a bit of pride for the former _"_bad girl_"_. But she did.

"Joy… Oh, Joy… Patricia, I'm sorry."

Patricia said nothing for a while. Then she spoke.

"Do you want to see his grave?"

"Yes."

And so the two went to the plot where her first and last love was laid to rest.

It turned out he had gotten married to a woman named Linn, as Patricia had told her quietly, respectfully, almost.  
She was apparently a lovely, mousey scholar he had met in his senior year of college.

They had had one child named James who was all grown up now, and, strangely, married to the Miller-Sweet's own child, Rose.

He had done as she asked and moved on.

But still she was sad.

She had secretly hoped that maybe he had done what she had done:

Waited.

But she was foolish to think he had.

* * *

Two months later, Patricia was admitted to the hospital for a heart attack.

Three months after that, Patricia passed away.

And finally, a year later, she, Nina Martin, died peacefully in her sleep, her mind, body, and soul all fixated on one place;

_Home_.

* * *

So, you see, not every story ends happily. But in a way, that's better than having a perfect ending.

It lets you know that "Tempus incedit" — Time marches on.

And there's nothing we can do about it.

* * *

**This was not my best work by a long shot. I got lazy at the end. But please, send me your feedback!**

**You can reach me on Instagram at: ****_ houseofhethuisanubis_**** and on Twitter at: ****_houseofhethuis_**

**Also, let me clarify some details you may or may not have picked up:**

**The fact that Patricia is the friend that comforts Fabian and also grew up to marry Eddie.**

**And yes. He did pass away.**

**If you'd like, you can ask me about the other characters of House of Anubis. They aren't really mentioned in this, but I still made up what happened to them.**


End file.
